Phantasm
by Laora
Summary: Everyone has a breaking point. Sam finally reaches his.


_I'm playing fast and loose with canon, here—this was originally written as an "original" story for my English class, so I've changed some parts of the storyline. It's still inherently Supernatural, though, so I thought I would post it here! Hope you guys like it :)_

* * *

You think you might have once believed in God.

Moving around so much, growing up, you never really got the chance to find out. Your mother (long dead) spoke to you of angels, but your father (a harsh, broken shell of a man) never gave God a chance. After all, he would say, if an all-powerful deity does exist, then it has a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

He's dead now, too. Your father, that is.

Your brother is all you have left, and you cling to him just as he clings to you—the sole survivors of this travesty you call a life. _The family business, _your brother names it in rare, fleeting moments of black humor. _Saving people, hunting things._

Killing monsters that few people realize exist, because if you won't do it, then who will?

The two of you travel across the country in your old, long-suffering Chevy, one foot in front of the other, job after job after job because that is all you know how to do anymore. Your brother, four years your senior, is a stalwart, impenetrable fortress, even as everything around you crumbles to ashes. You only wish you were that strong.

_"I gotta look out for my little brother. That's my job, right?"_ Because in your brother's eyes, family is all that's ever mattered—family, and protecting innocent people from those who pose a threat. There is no place in his life for religion or far-away gods.

Maybe, if you were more like him, none of this would have happened in the first place.

.

.

.

You tried to have a normal life, once. You left your father and your brother, left behind the broken shards of what should have been your family, and went off to university. You had a girlfriend. You were happy. You were going to _do something_ with your life.

But you've been cursed since the start, because once you get into the business, you can never truly get out. Your father damned you, bringing you up with stories of all the things that go bump in the night. By the time you started school, you knew of ghouls and shapeshifters and wendigos. By the age of ten, you were learning to shoot a shotgun. In high school, while other teenagers were studying and partying and falling in and out of love, you spent your evenings killing monsters that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

Your brother had long since dropped out of school, had resigned himself to following in your father's footsteps as a hunter of all things supernatural. It's a bloody job, a thankless job, and you knew that, more than likely, you would not live past the age of thirty. Hunters died young; that was simply the way of things. But your father did not seem to care, and your brother was too blinded by his loyalty to family to even think of doing anything else.

You were different. (Or so you told yourself.) You didn't want that life. And so you jumped on a bus with your meager belongings, leaving everything you knew behind to try and make a better life for yourself.

But eventually, of course, you were drawn back in.

.

.

.

You can tell that your brother is worried about you. Both of you know that you haven't been sleeping, that you haven't been eating, that your whole world seems to be slipping away before your very eyes.

(Your brother's always been stronger than you, more resilient, able to bounce back from nearly anything.)

(_Willing_ to bounce back. Maybe you simply don't care anymore.)

You've spent so long fighting, and you're _tired. _It's been years since you've had anything resembling a normal life...but you can't leave your brother, not now. He's just as broken as you, after all; you can see it all over his face. He hates this as much as you do, but he will see it done, because this is the only life he's ever known. To him, _normal_ is constantly worrying for his own safety and the safety of his loved ones. _N__ormal _is murdering strangers on a regular basis, hoping that it will save some other stranger from a bloody, horrific death. _Normal_ is this fucked-up life that nobody else would ever dream of living.

Maybe that's the difference between you two—because you got out, if only for a short while. You saw how other people lived, how _normal_ people went through life without knowing about any of these monsters. They think vampires and werewolves are creatures from storybooks and campfire tales, and they are content with living in their ignorance. Most of them have never killed, _will_ never kill. Likely, they will lead happy, apple-pie lives and die at a ripe old age that you can only dream of reaching.

But above all, the_ happiness_ you saw on their faces (that has always eluded you and your brother) is almost too much for you to bear.

(Maybe that's why you found your way back.)

You're living your warped, twisted version of _normal_, fighting monsters intent on ripping your throat out, monsters with claws and fangs and a bloodlust that will never be satisfied. You kill them, because otherwise they will kill you and a hundred others besides, but always there is a lingering doubt in the back of your mind. After all, these are still living creatures. Many were once human beings, just like you.

You put a bullet through their heart or a machete through their neck because that is what you must do, but with every kill you feel more and more like a monster.

At what point do you cross the line?

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.

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Once upon a time, there was a war between demons and angels, and the Earth was their battlefield.

(That's usually how such stories started, right? But this one wasn't so simple. After all, when both sides were equal in their cruelty, how were you supposed to know who should win?)

Demons possessed innocents, murdered indiscriminately, and their eyes blazed black as death. But angels—they weren't so different, were they? They, too, needed vessels to move in this plane; they participated wholeheartedly in what nearly became the apocalypse. They were not at all the kind, loving creatures that your mother made them out to be.

("Read the Bible," Michael snarled when you confronted him, useless guns and useless blades held in stubborn (trembling) hands, because what else were you to do against the likes of an archangel? "Angels are warriors. We are sent to do God's will, and we will carry it out. We do not question our orders, because we know them to be right—and our orders are to stop Lucifer, _at any cost_.")

But somehow, you doubted that God would desire such things if it meant losing the entire human race. After all, weren't you created in His image? Didn't all the stories say that He loved you more than anything else in the universe?

But the neverending tension only ever escalated, led by Michael and Lucifer (brothers torn apart by misdirected hatred—after all, the devil himself was once an angel) as larger and larger armies rallied. Mankind went about its business, unaware that their lives were so very close to ending. Demons destroyed and angels smote, all in the name of what they believed was right. The world grew dark.

You were only human, and you knew there was nothing you could do. You'd spent your whole life trying to stop the deaths of innocents, but that was all gone, now; after all this time, you had failed, completely and utterly.

_There was nothing you could do._

The battle between Lucifer and Michael—the turning point, that which would start the all-out warfare—arrived on a day just like any other. You and your brother were there, useless but stubborn, terrified but resolute. After all, if the human race—your brethren—was to be destroyed, you had to do _something._

(Or, at least, be there at its end, to mourn its passing and swear empty vengeance upon its murderers.)

The last thing you clearly remembered was the vague, wild thought that you _could _do something—not thinking before you seized your chance, and it _worked_—you didn't know whether God had finally arrived or if nobody thought you would be so fantastically _stupid_, but it was _working_ and—

You saw your brother's face—wide-eyed and horrified, more horrified than he had ever been in all those long years of hunting... But you'd just saved them all, and honestly, wasn't that all that mattered?—and then you were gone, falling down down down for what seemed like centuries until—

There was only fire and ice and rage, and you realized that this was Hell, and you were staring Lucifer in the face though his vessel was long gone, and—

(Even though you saved the world, locked Lucifer back into his cage and in doing so stopped the war, it was all over for you.)

(You told yourself it did not matter, so long as the others were safe.)

Lucifer only smiled.

.

.

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When you sleep, you dream of things you thought you locked away for good.

Hellfire and cruel laughter and pure, unending agony—you got out of Hell (didn't you?), whether by God's meddling or some other miracle—you were dragged out of the Pit and back to the world of the living, but still you relive it all in your dreams. Every night, you wake up screaming, rousing your brother from his own slumber and forcing him to sit up with you, his arm around your shoulders in a rough display of affection that grounds you in merciful reality. Every night, he talks without really saying anything until you calm down, until the sun rises, until you have a grasp on your own mind again.

You can see the dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep; you know they are your fault. You _despise_ yourself for it.

You see such horrible things in your dreams, so you vow to stay awake; you buy quad-shots in bulk and down them all in the span of a week. Your hands tremble and your vision isn't quite straight anymore, but _at least you aren't dreaming_, and as you sit up late at night in whatever crap motel you've checked into, you are comforted by the steady rise and fall of your brother's chest.

He is alive. You are alive. Hell is nothing more than a distant memory.

(So why does it seem so _present?)_

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.

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You were twenty-six years old the day you died...

Barely an adult when you saved the world.

(You're not sure how much longer you can hold on.)

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.

Your hands shake constantly, now, and you haven't had caffeine in at least twelve hours. Exhaustion nearly overwhelms you.

_(You cannot let yourself sleep.)_

Your brother has left for a few minutes to grab take-out, and so you're left in the motel at dusk, staring at your hands and wondering how it came to this. Not so many years ago, you were away at university, earning a degree in pre-law and truly enjoying yourself for perhaps the first time in your life. Not so long ago, you had nothing to do with angels or demons or Heaven or Hell.

Not so long ago, you were _happy._

Now, you are anything but; you are constantly nauseous, all but dead to the world even as you deny yourself the sleep your body obviously needs. You haven't closed your eyes in more than a week, and it shows. Already, you can feel your mind fraying as you attempt to think things through.

You're stronger than this. _Your_ _brother_ is stronger than this. He'd be disappointed in you if you give in...you're sure of it._  
_

You can do this. You will stay awake. You will be a burden on him no longer.

A sudden movement out of the corner of your eye jerks you back to full awareness, because you know there is no way your brother would be back yet; your hand unconsciously reaches for the knife tucked into your jacket before you turn your head slowly. Then you see who it is, and the whole world grinds to a halt.

_Lucifer._

This is impossible.

This is _impossible.__  
_

You know this and yet it seems so real; the body he inhabited while he walked the earth stares back at you, all sly grin and sharp eyes and—

That vessel was destroyed. You saw it happen yourself. (But he's an _angel_—how hard would it be to put it back together?)

"What are you doing here?" you're able to choke out, and your voice doesn't sound quite as threatening as you wish it did. You grip the knife (though you know it will do less than nothing) and stand up on shaky legs. "_What the hell are you doing here?"_

"Oh, Sam," he says, his voice smooth and taunting as he leans against the wall and smiles. "I never left."

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.

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"You all right, Sammy?"

"M'fine."

(Lucifer laughs from the corner. Your brother says nothing about it.)

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You think he must have put something in the food, because you've passed out within five minutes and you sleep like the dead. Somehow, there are no nightmares—at least that you remember—and when you wake up, your brother is sitting on the other bed, his posture rigid and his face in his hands.

You say his name, and your voice is hoarse. Lucifer—standing by the TV—laughs heartily, not bothering to quiet his voice. Your brother looks up at your call; his eyes are strangely red-rimmed and bright as he stares at you.

It's midday, if the sun streaming through the grubby windows is anything to go by, and he clearly hasn't slept a wink.

"Sam," he acknowledges, surreptitiously rubbing at his eyes (as if you wouldn't notice) before crossing the short distance to your bed. "How're you feeling?"

"I've told you, I'm fine," you say, though both of you know it's a lie. He does not press the issue.

"Right—well, it's—it's good to see you sleeping again, at least," he says, hesitating before patting you on the shoulder awkwardly, as if fearing you might break. "You need anything, let me know, yeah? Just rest up for a while."

"Yeah," you agree easily enough, and he nods jerkily, stepping toward the bathroom. Not once does he glance toward the third occupant of the room, and when Lucifer laughs again, cruelly, sitting down on your bed to reach for the remote, your brother does not turn.

(He _has_ to be here, though—you can feel the weight of his vessel on the mattress as he shifts to get comfortable; you can see in sharp detail his face and hands and body; you can hear him, and how can your brother not? Why has he not pulled a gun on him, when this monster has caused you both so much grief?)

He settles on the history channel, and the poor reception affords you little to pay attention to, not when your nerves are still so shot from lack of sleep. You can hear that they are talking about the Holocaust, the rounding up of Jews and gypsies and homosexuals and anyone else deemed too _different..._

"Humans really are stupid creatures, aren't they?" Lucifer comments lightly, squinting at the television for a moment longer before turning toward you with an almost bemused frown. "Makes you wonder why my Father loved you so much."

You don't quite know how to reply to that, so you only huff and roll over in a futile attempt to ignore him. He laughs outright at that, turning back to the television without another word.

.

.

.

The_ family business_ seems to have ground to a halt.

Your brother rents the motel room for another week, forcing you to stay in bed most of the time and ignoring any strange incidents in the news that would normally have him speeding down the interstate. "We've got more important things to worry about," he says when you ask, and his gaze lingers a little too long on your face before he finally turns away.

_You're weak. _It's written all over his features, even if he doesn't have the heart to say it aloud. You're weak, and helpless, and he needs to take care of you because you can't do it yourself.

_Stupid, spineless Sammy!_ It's Lucifer's newest favorite catchphrase; he screams it out at all hours of the night, waking you up and annoying you incessantly until you have no hopes of falling back asleep.

(Your brother is never bothered by it, and you find that this fills you with irrational, surging hatred for the both of them.)

Your only consolation is that Lucifer doesn't seem to be able to harm you physically—which you find odd (because he had no such reservations in Hell)—but you're not about to mention it. However, his whispers of what he is _going_ to do once he steals you away, once he finds an opportunity to separate you from your brother, are nearly as bad, and this terrified anticipation is definitely worse.

You feel like a child, but you cling to your brother almost obsessively as the days go by. He's clearly confused—because you two have never been big on the chick-flick stuff_—_but takes it in stride, coming to whatever conclusions he will. He never asks you why; you're not sure whether to be relieved by this or annoyed.

Looking at your brother's face, though, you know that he has changed. He's always been gruff—after all, your father never had spare words for anything but criticism and harsh realities, and growing up like that, you just learned to bottle things up—but now, things seem...different. You can't put your finger on why, but he seems more distant, less attached to you as the days drag on. He spends more time in the bathroom, turns the TV up louder, makes excuses to get out of the motel—"We need some grub, anything you want me to pick up?" "The clerk wants to double-check our cards, I'll be back in a minute," "I'm just gonna get some air, all right?"—and you don't understand _why_ he would be doing such things, except that maybe he's finally grown sick of his kid brother. After almost twenty-seven years of dragging you along everywhere he goes...he's finally fed up.

(You can't help your weakness, though, not when Lucifer allows you maybe two hours of sleep every night. But your brother doesn't even realize he's there.)

You convince yourself that you can manage. You've always managed. Your father all but disowned you when you left for college, but you moved past that easily enough—even when you got news that he had been killed on a hunt during your junior year. You managed in _Hell,_ endured what felt like centuries of torture before you were finally freed—

(You were, weren't you_? Weren't you?)_

(But if you were with Lucifer when he was locked so securely back into the Pit, how did you get out?)

You—well. You can manage. Even if your brother is sick of you...maybe if you explain what's going on, he can help.

This will turn out all right. After all, things always do.

(Or so you keep telling yourself.)

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.

.

You resolve to tell him about Lucifer when he awakes that morning, but when you wake up—strangely, after the sun has risen, and of your own accord—your brother is nowhere to be found.

Fear spikes through your gut as you glance around the room, but he isn't in his bed; the bathroom door is wide open; his gun, when you yank open the bedside drawer in desperation, is gone—

Lucifer stands, grinning, near the door, and he says nothing as you get your shaking legs beneath you and lurch toward the door. You can't breathe, can't see, can't hear anything but the pounding of your own heart as you pull open the door and look along the road.

Your brother's car is gone.

With a roar of terror you make your way outside, searching desperately for your brother. He can't have left you—he _can't—_he's your older brother, he's your best friend, _he's all you have left in this world_—he _can't_ have left you in Lucifer's clutches; even if he hates you, now, he wouldn't wish that upon his worst enemy—

You're not paying attention to your surroundings, not caring what kind of odd looks you're attracting with your unkempt hair and dirty clothes and deathly pale face. Your world has narrowed to a pinprick, and all you care about in this moment is _finding your older brother_—

There is suddenly a whoosh of air, a loud noise like a foghorn, and Lucifer's harsh laughter in your ear.

That's all the warning you have before pain explodes in your left side; suddenly, you're flying through the air before your head slams into the ground, and the world goes dark._  
_

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When you next wake in what you think is a hospital, the first thing you see is Lucifer grinning at you.

The second is your brother.

His face is drawn and pale, and as soon as your eyes flutter open, he lets out an enormous breath and punches the wall with a terribly-shaking hand. "Damnit, Sammy, I leave for ten minutes to get coffee..." Though his tone is nothing but relieved, you can read a certain irritation in his eyes. "They said it's only your thick skull that kept you alive back there—the fucking SUV was speeding like a—"

You're trying to pay attention to him—you really are. After all, with your brother here, Lucifer can do nothing to you...and, of course, you're simply relieved to see him again. But the steady beeping of the heart monitor is horribly distracting, and Lucifer draws your gaze to him as he makes his way across the room. Your brother notices; his brow furrows as he follows your line of sight. But his gaze goes straight through Lucifer, staring blankly at the curtain behind him before he turns back to you—

"What is it? There's nothing there—"

Lucifer laughs coldly, taking another step forward, and you instinctively shrink away from him, back into the bedframe, pulling your knees up like a child and agitating what seem to be broken ribs. Your brother cries out and jumps to shift you onto your back again, his gaze raking the room before focusing again on you—

"_There's nothing there,_ Sam—I promise, you're safe, you just got hit by a car, there's nothing weird about that—"

You shake your head, both in denial and in utter shock at the fact that your brother simply _cannot see_ _Lucifer_ when he's standing barely feet from them. Your brother looks at a loss for what to say; he searches your face, a deep frown pulling at his lips, before he says, "What's been going on with you? You've been—you've been _weird_, these past couple of weeks—"

"Can't you see him?"

The incredulous words fall from your mouth before you can stop yourself, and you whip your head up to gauge your brother's reaction. His mouth gapes open for a moment, and he glances around the room again as if to make sure before saying slowly, "There's no one in the room but us...who're you—"

You let out something that might be a strangled moan—either your brother is lying or Lucifer is playing some sort of trick, because there is no way he's _not _real_—_before gripping your head tight in both hands, curling onto your uninjured side and barely hearing your brother as he cries out in alarm.

This isn't right. _Something_ isn't right. There's something terribly wrong about this situation, and all you know for sure is that Lucifer is still standing at the foot of your bed, wearing that cruel, cruel grin—

Maybe this is all a game, an illusion. Maybe your brother isn't really here. Maybe you're hallucinating; you lost your mind when your brother left, and now you're compensating by imagining him here, in the hospital—

Maybe—

"You never got out, Sam," Lucifer says, and his tone is confidential, gloating, and your gut twists tighter as he continues, "You're still stuck with me, in Hell. _Forever_."

The tempo of the heart monitor is increasing to dangerous levels, and your brother's screams ring in your ears, and hands are grasping at your shoulders—but all you can feel is hellfire and icy rage before you finally succumb to the darkness.

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You'd like to say that the last thing you saw was your brother, even if he was a lie conjured up by your own mind.

But it wasn't. Just before you blacked out, all you could see was Lucifer's predatory grin.

You can't even find comfort in your brother's face anymore, because wherever you are now—alive, dead, somewhere in between—you never see him again.

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.

.

Suspended in the darkness, you think your father was right. If there is a God, he has a hell of a lot of explaining to do...

(And no matter what he says, you're not sure you'll ever forgive him for what he's done.)


End file.
